The Bone Magician (13 page)
Authors: F. E. Higgins
Beag took a bow and smiled as his audience broke out into enthusiastic applause. Aluph Buncombe even stood and
cheered.
‘Bravo,’ he said. ‘Bravo. A fine story, Beag. I do believe that if anyone could survive a night on that mountain, it
would be you.’
‘How about one of those songs you’re always telling us about?’ suggested Mrs Hoadswood, and Beag’s face lit up
and he was off again. As soon as one song was finished he launched into another (what a repertoire he had!) and Mr Pantagus and Aluph, and occasionally Mrs Hoadswood, sang along heartily. Pin, however, was fighting off
one yawn after another. Juno tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Come with me,’ she said.
Pin hesitated then clambered off the bench and followed her up the stairs. In the hall above, away from the fire, the air was sharp
and he felt wide awake again.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Pin.
‘Mrs Hoadswood told me to show you to your room,’ said Juno over her shoulder, already halfway along the corridor.
‘Wait for me, then,’ called Pin after her and ran to catch up.
Breathing heavily, Pin followed Juno up countless crooked flights of stairs, around numerous corners and down a
multitude of corridors. Mrs Hoadswood’s lodging house was maze-like in its layout and Pin had no idea any more whether he was facing north, south, east or west. Finally his silent guide opened a door on to one last set of stairs that led to a tiny
attic room with such low eaves it was hardly possible to stand up fully even in the middle.
‘Here you are,’ said Juno with a smile and handed him a candle.
Pin held it up and looked around with curious surprise that turned immediately to pleasure. Granted the room was exceedingly small but,
as a consequence, easily
warmed by the fire burning brightly in the grate. There was a skylight in the roof, but it was covered over with frozen snow. The floor was laid with broad planks of ancient oak. A large part of
the room was taken up by a low wooden bed with woollen blankets and a thick bolster. At the foot of the bed was a chest upon which sat a white pitcher of water in a basin.
‘So, will it suit?’
‘It’s marvellous,’ said Pin enthusiastically. ‘Better than anything I could have expected. But . . . how
much?’ he asked nervously.
‘A shilling a week,’ said Juno.
He had been paying four at Barton’s.
‘There’s a nightshirt on the bed and you’ll find some old clothes in the chest if you need them.’
‘Thank you,’ said Pin. Although they had not spoken of the night in the
Cella
Moribundi
he felt that there was some understanding between them.
‘You’re welcome,’ she smiled, and left without any further conversation.
Pin, suddenly overcome by fatigue, threw off his outer clothes, pulled on the thick nightshirt and climbed into bed. The beams across
the ceiling were only inches away
from his face, but he didn’t care. He was warm and well fed; what more could a boy want? He hugged himself tightly and congratulated himself on his good fortune. All those weeks
at Barton’s with the mice and rats and noise and filth. He was reminded of something his mother used to say: ‘Suffering sweetens the reward.’ She would be pleased to see how well things were working out for him.
He pulled up the blanket and felt its roughness under his chin and was reassured that this was very real. He heard the creaking of the
floorboards below and guessed that the others were off to bed too. His mind drifted and he thought of Sybil and Mr Pantagus, and Madame de Bona and, of course, Juno. Perhaps they could be friends, he thought, and determined to speak to her properly in
the morning. Then his eyes closed and his breathing slowed and he was asleep.
In the room below, Juno also lay in bed, but she was wide awake. It intrigued and troubled her that the boy with the
strange eyes had turned up out of the blue. She had not thought they would cross paths again after that night with Sybil and then at the Nimble Finger. ‘He certainly
recognized me,’ she mused as she turned
over. ‘All through supper, whenever I looked up, there he was staring at me.’
Juno knew about Oscar Carpue – who didn’t? But she also knew that Mrs Hoadswood wasn’t the kind of person to judge
someone by the actions of others, related or not. She would be the first to say that there were many in Irongate Prison whose only crime was poverty.
What a strange collection we are, she thought. Beag and Aluph, Benedict and myself, and now an undertaker’s assistant with a
murderous past, admittedly by association . . . And so her thoughts ran on and time passed and still she could not sleep. She knew what would help. She lay for a minute, in two minds, thinking about what Benedict had said earlier, but then she pulled out
her trunk. She’d worry about that another day.
Pin wasn’t sure what woke him. He thought perhaps a bird landing on the roof, but whatever it was it gave him a
shock and he lay still with his heart pounding like a paviour’s hammer. The darkness was almost complete except for the faintest glow from the fire. Where was he?
Mrs Hoadwood’s, he remembered with a gleeful feeling.
He curled up and closed his eyes,
drawing the blanket up over his ears. If he could only recapture his dreams! But his nose began to twitch and he could smell something, a peculiar sweetness on the air, creeping into his room.
He sat up on one elbow and sniffed. Quietly he left the bed, lit the candle from the embers and followed his nose across the room and
down the stairs. Once in the corridor it was immediately obvious where the smell was coming from – hazy smoke was seeping out from under the door directly opposite. He stood with his nose pressed against the wood. It was an irresistible smell, and
hardly thinking of what he was doing he grasped the handle, but before he could turn it the door opened and he found himself face to face with a white-faced ghoul.
‘Fiends!’ He jumped back. ‘You nearly gave me an apoplectic fit! I fancied you to be a shade.’
Juno laughed and pulled him in, shutting the door behind him. ‘I should have thought in your line of work you’d have met
your fair share of them already.’
Pin reddened. He looked around the room. It was furnished sparsely, very much like his own, but larger. ‘I’m sorry. I
followed the smell . . .’
‘Ah, my little secret!’
Juno went over to the fire, took away the burner and covered it with a lid. She knelt on the floor and held her hands
out to the flames.
‘Join me.’
Pin sat down beside her. ‘What were you burning?’
‘Herbs,’ she replied. Her face was flushed and her eyes bright, but Pin wasn’t so sure it was from the heat. She
reached across to the bed and pulled out the trunk. ‘I have some for every occasion,’ she said, opening the lid and showing Pin the pots and packets. She pointed them out.
‘Heliotrope for good luck, caraway seeds for good health, cumin for tranquillity. And here, cinnamon and anise—’
‘For summoning,’ said Pin with a smile which Juno returned.
‘And tonight,’ she continued, ‘I was burning jasmine and lavender with a drop of bergamot oil, to help me
sleep.’
‘Your conscience must be pricked,’ laughed Pin, ‘about what you did to me.’
Juno looked guilty. ‘You mean that night with Sybil and Mr Belding? I’m sorry, but I had to give you the sleeping drug; we
couldn’t afford to have you interfere.’
‘It’s the strangest thing I have ever seen,’ said Pin. ‘A body coming to life in that
way.’
‘So you were awake.’
‘Only just. I’m not sure it wasn’t a dream.’
‘Don’t you believe what you saw?’
‘I know what I saw,’ said Pin. ‘But I also know it can’t be real.’
‘What about Madame de Bona?’
He laughed. ‘That’s a good trick.’
‘But you asked her a question! Weren’t you pleased with the answer?’
‘If it was true! But I think my father has gone from here. I have looked for weeks.’
‘Madame de Bona doesn’t lie.’
Pin looked at her sharply. Was she teasing? He couldn’t tell. ‘I should have asked who killed my uncle. That would have
solved a lot of problems. I wonder what Madame de Bona would have said to that.’
Juno grinned. ‘I am sure you would be satisfied with the answer, whatever it was.’ She yawned widely and stretched.
‘You’ll like it here,’ she said. ‘You’re in good company. You can have my room when I go. It’s bigger.’
‘You’re going?’
‘Not
for a week or two. Benedict is staying here, Mrs Hoadswood insisted, but I want to leave the
City.’
‘So do I,’ said Pin with feeling. ‘There’s nothing here for me any more.’
‘I could say the same thing.’ Juno yawned again and Pin rose and went to the door. He sniffed the air gently and watched
as she put the herbs away. He was surprised to feel disappointed that she was not going to be around much longer. She saw him watching and smiled.
‘We have something else in common, you know,’ she said.
‘Oh?’
‘We are both looking for someone.’
‘Well, I’m looking for my father,’ said Pin. ‘Who are you looking for?’
‘The man who murdered mine.’
Well, it has been a week now since I met with Beag and Aluph – already Mr Buncombe allows me to address him as such
– and it is my sincere belief that I have not spent such a marvellous seven nights as this in my entire life. I cannot recall similar feelings of satisfaction and contentment since my mother died
. Father went into
such a decline after that and he was never the same again. As for Uncle Fabian, how I wish I knew the events of that terrible night
. How I seethe when I think of him! Could it be possible that Father felt such anger too,
that he lost control and took him by his scrawny throat?
It does me no good to dwell on such matters, however, and for now I prefer to think on my new friends,
for already the welcome has been such that I consider them to be just that. Juno has proved to be an intriguing companion and we have spent many hours together discussing most things under the sun until the late hours. She is extremely
knowledgeable about nature’s bounty and I have developed quite a fondness for her aromatic practices – they are most conducive to easeful sleep – and indeed, for her own aroma; she smells of juniper. She may be serious by nature, but
she has a keen wit and I fancy I sense a growing connection between us.
Mr Pantagus in the main keeps to himself; he seems rather frail, but Beag is a remarkable fellow, an entertainer of no mean talent
. Most evenings after supper – to date a superb array of Mrs Hoadswood’s pies and ale – Beag is called upon to sing or tell a story. Last night we were treated to a fine rendition of ‘Old Mackey
Donnelly’s Donkey’. Beag sang the verses to the tune of ‘The Wild Rover of Bally Hooley’, and we joined in the chorus
. It goes something like this
:
Old Mackey Donnelly
Put his donkey out to grass
But the cheeky donkey turned
And bit him on the . . .
Then the chorus comes in with
:
. . . As sure as roses bloom in spring
As sure as night ’comes day
I’ll be back to Bally Hooley ’fore the
Making of the hay
The verses are numerous – I am sure Beag makes them up as he goes along – but it is a most enjoyable way to pass
the time and certainly takes your mind off your worries.
I have a growing admiration for Aluph Buncombe. I enjoy watching him at the table for he eats with a quiet delicacy, in complete contrast
to the others, which reminds me of my mother. She was always very strict about my manners and Aluph shames me into remembering what once came naturally to me
. Not only is he well spoken, but he dresses immeasurably better
than the rest of us. As is currently fashionable across the
river, he sports a bunch of lace at his neck to which is pinned a brooch of a different colour stone every day. Today it was a ruby. I cannot be sure of its
authenticity, but it is very pleasing to the eye. There is lace at his cuffs and he wears a well-fitted waistcoat with gold embroidery. I do suspect his monocle is an affectation, as it spends more time dropping out of his eye than in it. Aluph and Beag,
despite their apparent differences, are the greatest of friends. They are drawn together by the heartfelt belief that each is destined for greater things.
